Bow to Death
by Lord Atrum
Summary: What can a person become when their only emotion is hatred, their only goal destruction? The tyrants of the world, both great and petty, create such beings. So, whatever became of Harry Potter? One-shot.


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. (Just in case it wasn't obvious.)

Bow to Death

A thunderous crack shattered the silence of the night. Emerging from wisps of dark vapor a shadowy figure strode towards the black cloaks and white masks of its enemies. The tall, serpentine man whirled around at the piercing noise, pointing 13 inches of yew at the newcomer.

"Who are you?" the man hissed.

"You do not know me?" the shadowy figure laughed, cold and inhuman, terrifying on a magnitude Tom Riddle never achieved. "I suppose it is inconceivable what I have become. I am your death, Tom. I have had little higher purpose in my existence. And nothing can hide you from the destruction all men face. So, Tom, _bow to death_." Ringing force carried in the figure's command and stunned recognition appeared on the gaunt man's face.

"Avadakedavra." The word is spoken without its usual routine efficiency, bespeaking the true depths of the brief flicker of fear that flashed across those snakelike features. Two brilliant points of green flare underneath the hood of the newcomer, exactly matching the curse. It does not so much as flinch as approaching death sputters and dies on impact, viridian sparks dancing along its cloak.

The laughter that should have belonged to Death itself resounded in the night air again. "Truly, Tom? The killing curse, again? I thought even you could be more imaginative than that. Try to kill me Tom, but _I, _unlike you, am truly invincible. You cannot flee from me, you cannot kill me…and you shall _bow_ before the night ends."

"Fiendfyre," Voldemort hissed with a rage inspired by terror as the incantation is echoed from eight white masks. Cascades of flame rush over the cloak, fiery serpents burying its form. Unbearable heat radiates from spot, the sickly black residue of the fire bespeaking its unearthly nature as it rages high into the night sky. Nothing could survive such an inferno surely, not even for a single moment, not even the most fearsome dragon could weather such flames, but Voldemort does not give the command to halt. The heavy breathing of the Death Eaters becomes audible with the strain of the spell as the flames scorch the earth for long minutes. Slowly they release the curse until only their Lord fuels the swirling inferno. As strain begins to show on the face of even this most powerful of sorcerers, that terrible, unearthly laughter emanates from the heart of the fire.

"Impossible," a masked figure breathes.

The Dark Lord falters, fear creasing his features, as he continues to strain the curse to his limits, attempting to deny the mocking laughter.

A glint of steel. A monster emerges from the flames gripping a gleaming sword. Its eyes are piercing points of viridian flame, contrasting with the grey, ropy tendons that cover its bare body, slimy and rotting as if it had emerged from a century in the heart of a swamp, rather than from within the fearsome pyre that might have leveled mountains. And its smile-sharp yellowed teeth-wide and mocking, more terrifying than can be imagined, evincing the question in the horrified minds of the assembled masks, whether the very gates of hell had been opened by the vigor of their master's spell.

"The legacy of Godric Gryffindor," the creature gestured at itself and laughed, as uniquely terrifying as it had been the first time. "Tom Riddle…I asked myself what I was willing to become to kill you. Not to be a hero, not for this pathetic remnant of the Dark Ages, but for me, for revenge," the demon licks its cracked and oozing lips, "You know what the answer was, Tom?"

Laughter.

Suddenly, a wave of concussive force erupts with a wave of its hand, tossing its enemies like ragdolls through the air, leaving their master standing against the unspeakable horror. With the twitch of a finger they jerked to a halt midflight, held aloft for a moment before their hearts were ripped from their chests, flying towards the monstrous being. The bloody masses disappeared in a flash of green tinged with black, the death magic rebounding towards a dead man.

Yet he tried to flee from death. But no one can run forever. And no living thing left the field.

Yet that laughter echoed a long time.


End file.
